


Sink or Swim

by Vae



Category: A Knight's Tale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wat's dirty. Chaucer plans to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink or Swim

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Terryl for beta services, originally written as a midwinter gift in 2007.

The maid empties the last bucket of steaming water into the tub, bobs a half-curtsey at Geoff, throws a saucy glance at Wat, and backs out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft snick of the latch falling into housing.

The room's small and only holds one bed, but Wat's used to that. He's shared rooms and beds enough in his time, never seen much use for a whole room for one person. That's just wasteful. What he's not used to is sharing with an uppity, pernickety poet whose first action on drawing the straw to share with him was to order a _bath_ sent to the room.

He's got horrible suspicions about who that bath's intended for.

"Your stench, Master Fowlehurst," Geoff states plainly, "offends my nose."

Wat folds his arms firmly, tilts his head, and glares at Geoff, who of _course_ has the effrontery to be bloody taller as well as bloody irritating. "If you think for one second -"

"For considerably longer than a second," Geoff corrects him, shrugging off his coat (and that's kind of a relief because that coat gives Wat all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts when Geoff's wearing it) and draping it across the foot of the bed. "It's a wonder that I can bear to be in any kind of enclosed space with such a potent aroma. Still, at least it means that I always know where you are."

The glare wavers for a moment while Wat works out if that's a compliment or not, and then reasserts itself, chin protruding aggressively. "It's healthy! I don't get sick." That doesn't stop him taking a surreptitious sniff at his shoulder, though, followed by a slightly less surreptitious sniff at his armpit, arms unlocking and actually, maybe Geoff might maybe have a point. Maybe. Not that Wat's about to concede, he washes plenty often enough, sometimes even more than once a month, and as soon as his eyes stop watering, he'll say something to that effect.

At least, if he can find his voice again. The fact that Geoff's fingers are already unlacing his tunic have pretty much reduced him to wordless confused annoyance. Long fingers, he's noticed that before, Geoff's got very long, slender fingers, hands almost like a woman's, except really not. He slaps the fingers away for their impertinence. If anyone's going to take his clothes off, it's going to be him, not some bloody irritating writer with a water fixation.

"I'm not surprised. The reek probably keeps disease at a safe distance. Holding its nose." Holding up his hands, Geoff steps back, head tilted, and sits. Long legs cross, and Geoff leans one elbow on his knee, chin on the heel of his hand, watching him intently.

Too intently. Wat's got no trouble with nakedness, modesty's got no use in a large family and stops fun stuff like swimming, but being watched as he takes his clothes off makes him uncomfortable. Because he can't work out _why_ Geoff's so interested, but it doesn't really matter, except for the uncomfortable, and he's definitely not about to let bloody Geoff know that he's uncomfortable. Or that being watched, like that, by Geoff, is twisting his guts into the sort of knots he gets when he's on a boat.

He hates boats. And some of them aren't even boats, they're ships, and he's got no idea how to tell the difference until the sailors start smirking when he says the wrong thing and that brings him back to water just as he strips off his hose, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Or at least cover his prick. He's not ashamed, of course he's not, it's just...odd. Not his prick, no, that's not at all odd, perfectly normal there, but Geoff watching him like that _is_ odd. Uncertainly, Wat glances at the tub, and then back at Geoff, lifting his chin defiantly. "I'm not a ship," he tells Geoff.

Geoff blinks, and then spreads those long fingers, standing up. "Of course you're not. Perhaps a row boat, but you're not going to sink." His voice is tinged with something Wat suspects of being amusement. "Get _in_. You won't drown."

"Of course I won't, I _can_ swim," Wat retorts, with a certain amount of pride. Lifting one foot, he dips a dubious toe in the water, then yells as he overbalances, pushed by a pushy poet, water splashing as he lands awkwardly in the tub. He hauls himself upright, sputtering in affront, one hand clasping the side of the tub, the other raised in a fist, frustration and confusion spilling into more familiar anger when he blinks water out of his eyes and glares at Geoff. At Geoff who's not where he had been when he shoved, but who's over by the door, handing over a bundle of cloth that looks horribly like...oh, sweet _Christ_. It is. Geoff's just handed Wat's clothes over to the serving wench and closed the door with a self-satisfied smirk that makes Wat's hand curl into a fist. "You," he manages, nearly vibrating with anger and frustration and something that's almost what nerves would be if there was any bloody way on earth that Geoff could possibly make him nervous, "you..."

"Yes, Master Fowlehurst," Geoff replies blithely, as if he's completely unaware that Wat has any other name or any reason on God's green earth to be absolutely bloody furious with him. "Me."

And Wat doesn't have an answer for that, how could he, when there's no answer to be given in words. More when he realises that Geoff didn't stop with the coat, he's actually removed his tunic and boots and wait, there's no gambling going on, there's no reason that Geoff should be taking his clothes off, is there? Is there? "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Wat demands, torn between disbelief and fury and utter confusion.

The look he gets for that doesn't resolve those conflicts in any way whatsoever. Or answer his question. "I hardly think that you're _blind_," Geoff tells him acidly, and removes his shirt. And hose.

Wat averts his eyes rapidly. Naked. He's locked in a room with a naked mad writer and it doesn't matter the least bit that Geoff didn't have any clothes on the first time Wat met him, because well, he was a stranger then, and he wasn't Geoff, he was Chaucer and a bloody risk to Will's stupid bloody plan with all that laughing and talking and _knowing_ and the way he'd just picked his foot up to suck that thorn out and oh, no. No. Wat's not going to start thinking about how bendy Geoff is again. Or the sucking thing.

Not that it appears he's going to get the chance, because Geoff's crossing the room towards him, he can hear the quiet pad of naked feet across the rugs, and he dares a quick glance. At the feet. They're very, very naked. He can't remember last time he's seen feet look that naked. Not just bare, but blatantly, shamelessly naked.

Wat looks at his own feet for a moment, oddly shaped through the water, and then back at Geoff's feet. They're definitely more naked than his own.

"Well, move _up_," Geoff says in exasperation, and much to his own shock, Wat does, warm water sloshing around him and it actually doesn't feel bad. It's sort of nice, in fact.

He's entirely fascinated by the play of candlelight on the shifting water when the water shifts a lot more and there's suddenly warm, wet, _naked_ Geoff behind him, one long leg stretched out either side of his body. He's trapped. Surrounded by Geoff and it's obviously some kind of evil plot. A plot to....something. Something that he's getting very suspicious about when something warm and slick slides over his back and that's so good that he's only vaguely embarrassed to hear himself moaning, followed by the dark sound of Geoff's chuckle. And then that warm slippery something moves over his shoulder to his chest and _hooks_ him back against Geoff's body, and he stops worrying about it, flopping tired and boneless against Geoff's chest.

"We both need to get clean, Wat," Geoff murmurs, quiet, close to his ear. Close enough that Wat can feel breath shaping the words against his skin. It's warm, and it makes him shiver, and he's vaguely aware that there's no logic to that but his mind's obviously been drowned in the tub because it still makes sense. "After all, we'll be sharing that bed."

After all, Wat reasons, they will. That makes sense, too.


End file.
